The Care and Feeding of Sherlock Holmes
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: As it turns out, keeping Sherlock Holmes alive is not the easiest task John Watson has ever undertaken. Collection of drabbles, maybe crack.
1. How to: Train Your Detective to Cross

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Train Your Detective to Cross the Street.**

John was almost certain that he'd nearly had a stroke the first time Sherlock had crossed a street— in London, mind— without looking both ways. He'd run after him, nearly getting hit himself, only for the detective to look at him like he was a madman when he started yelling.

"John, calm down!" Sherlock ordered him, grabbing his shoulders. "Why, exactly, are you shouting at me?"

"Did _no one_ ever tell you to check before you cross the street?" John demanded in response, squirming away from Sherlock's grasp, heart still beating out of control.

Sherlock stared at him, puzzled. "Check what?"

"To see if there are cars coming!"

"Oh that? They'll stop," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"You look around. _All _the time, at everything. Except, apparently, when crossing the bloody street!"

"Looking both ways is dull."

"Being in traction is dull, too, I'm sure."

"It's not as bad as you would think," Sherlock contradicted him. "Generally, if you're in traction, you're heavily medicated enough that you don't much care that you can't move."

"Why were you in traction?" John demanded. Then he thought better of it. "No, you know what, I don't want to know."

Sherlock gave him the look that John was most used to receiving from him— a vague lack of understanding mixed with mild horror.

"One question, actually," John amended. "Were you in traction because you were hit by a car?"

"No."

"Well, next time you will be. Promise me you'll look before you cross the street, from now on? That's all I ask. You don't even have to wait if you see a car, just take a look first."

Sherlock turned and began walking. "I don't make promises I can't keep, John," he called over his shoulder.

John gaped after him until it became clear that he was going to leave him behind, as he so often did.

"Sherlock! Wait for me!"


	2. How to: Dress Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Dress Your Detective**

Sherlock burst out of his bedroom, all energy and life and clearly on a case, suited up in his usual, the purple shirt this time.

"John!" he bellowed in the general direction of his always early-waking friend, who had just sat down with the perfect cup of tea, "it was the woman with the fourteen cats! We must go interview her at once!"

"Alright, yes, sure," John sighed. "But first you have to change clothes."

Sherlock frowned, looking down at himself, immaculate as always.

"What's wrong with what I've got on?"

"It's your purple shirt," John replied as if that explained everything.

"Yes."

"We're going to go see a lonely old cat lady," he elaborated.

"I believe that is the term, yes."

"You'll be molested if you wear that shirt," John supplied matter-of-factly.

"I hardly think that-"

"The purple shirt is obscene, Sherlock. It's a size too small and you're really supposed to wear an undershirt with things like that."

"Obscene?" Sherlock repeated, as if the word were foreign to him.

"Pornographic," John confirmed.

"I... I see." Sherlock looked back up at John, thoroughly lost.

"What?"

"I was given to understand that purple was a flattering color on me."

"It is. That's another problem. Additionally, it also reveals that you, in all your asexual glory, are well-built. You are going to taunt an old woman with something she can never have."

Sherlock tried for a comeback but John spoke the truth, so he retreated back to his room to change without another word.


	3. How to: Repair Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**

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**How to: Repair Your Detective**

"John, I am perfectly capable of putting on a bandage without your help."

"No, Sherlock, I really don't think you are."

Sherlock hadn't ever really gotten the 'look both ways' thing down, much to John's annoyance, and he was finally beginning to pay the price, if only a minor one. All things being equal, a scraped knee wasn't bad, considering the fact that a car had actually hit him. In this particular case, though, John felt like he was right to worry. If anyone could manage to get a scraped knee infected and proceed to die from blood poisoning, it would be Sherlock-sodding-Holmes. Better to fight it out with him now than avoid the argument and have him lose a leg. He'd be _insufferable_ with one leg. And he'd probably still want to chase after criminals...

"Sit still!" John scolded him from where he knelt on the floor, grabbing the knee and trying to stop it from jiggling up and down.

"This is boring."

"If you would stop moving for four seconds we'd be done by now and you could be off on your next manic episode." He knew that was asking for a lot, though. After all, it had taken half an hour of bullying to even get Sherlock to agree to sit in his chair and let this happen.

"Bandages are boring."

"_You're_ boring."

Sherlock smirked and jolted his knee as John aimed the bandage, causing him to stick it on his leg instead of his knee.

"You do realize that now it's stuck to your leg hair," John informed him.

Sherlock frowned, "Yes, that occurred to me a moment after it was too late to abort the motion... I didn't really think it through."

"Clearly."

John grinned as he ripped the bandage off with more force than necessary, making Sherlock yelp.

"You enjoyed that!" Sherlock accused him.

"I did," John agreed cheerfully. "Maybe operant conditioning will work on you. Ignore your doctor, feel pain."

"Operant conditioning doesn't work when the subject is aware you're trying to condition him," the tall man grumbled, folding his arms and hunching down like a child. "Whatever happened to 'do no harm!'"

"Whatever happened to growing up?" John retorted easily, trying his best to uncrinkle the sticky parts of the bandage but giving up after a few moments when he saw that it was hopeless. He was pleased to note that there were a few Sherlock leg hairs stuck to it. Served him right.

"I'll grow up when everyone stops treating me like a child."

"You do see the flaw in your logic, right?" John lined up another bandage. Then: "Sherlock! Hold still! There's a bee on you!"

Sherlock froze.

...Huh, it had actually worked.

Swiftly, John affixed the bandage in the correct place, leaning back, triumphant, as Sherlock figured it out and groaned.

"Cheater."


	4. How to: Bruise Your Detective's Ego

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Bruise Your Detective's Ego**

John looked down at his shin noticing, for the first time, a large, dark bruise there. For a moment he pondered it, trying to remember how he'd gotten it, but he had no idea. Oh well. Not like he could pull the answer out of thin—

Wait.

He looked up at where Sherlock was reclining, flipping through a text about ants.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Could you look at this?"

John rolled up his pant leg a bit more and gestured to it when Sherlock looked up.

"At what? The bruise on your leg you've been contemplating for the last three minutes?"

"No, my knee. Look at how nice and peach it is," John said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes, your bruise, what about it."

"How did I get it?"

"How can you not know?" Sherlock countered.

"Can you tell me or not?"

Sherlock huffed.

"Fine. Guess you're not so brilliant after all, if you don't know where a simple bruise came from."

"Evidently not."

"Too bad."

"Indeed."

John smirked and let his face go slack, gazing out the window. When Sherlock shifted, it turned into a smirk, because he knew he'd won.

"You got that bruise in the surgery. A patient dropped something and you bent to pick it up, and as you straightened you took a half-step forward and rammed your shin on the bed frame!" he exploded.

"Oh! Right. I remember now. Thanks."

The singsong was probably not necessary.

Seeming to agree, Sherlock stalked away to read about his ants elsewhere.


	5. How to: Discipline Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Discipline Your Detective**

"Okay, Sherlock. This time you have _actually_ gone too far."

The detective looked up from his experiment and gave John his best annoyed huff. "What have I done, then?"

John looked pointedly at the floor around him, then at his arm. Both were crawling with ants.

"Yes?"

"The _ants,_ Sherlock!" John exploded. "The ants you have _filled_ our flat with!"

The detective blinked. "I'm testing the order in which ants will carry away human body parts."

John had noticed the corpse in the middle of the room, but all things considered it seemed to be a minor detail. Really, this particular experiment seemed like it actually was relevant to Sherlock's field, and he felt himself beginning to relent and... NO!

"Sherlock, this isn't okay. The ants are _everywhere_."

"Are you afraid of ants?"

"Of course not."

"Then what does it matter?"

John stared for a moment, then nodded sharply. "Yep. Okay." With swift, sturdy movement, John strode over to Sherlock and held out his hand. "Can I see your phone for a second?"

Sherlock grunted and dug around in his pockets for a moment, brushing away ants, and tossed it to John.

"Cool, thanks," the doctor said cheerfully, and put it in his own pocket.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "John?"

"I'm taking your mobile away."

"But—"

"If you get a text from Lestrade, or any I deem important from anyone else, I will tell you."

"But—"

"I'm keeping it for four days."

"But what if there's an emergency and I must summon assistance!"

John considered that. "If it looks like that may happen, I'll let you have it."

Sherlock smirked.

"BUT," John added, "if you construct an emergency just to get your phone back, I'll know, and then I'll keep it for a whole week."

The smirk disappeared, replaced by a sulk. "You're not my father," he pointed out. "You don't get to _discipline_ me."

"Well, someone has to," John said lightly, patting his pocket. "And frankly, your parents did a piss-poor job of it if you ask me."

Sherlock couldn't argue with that.

He also never filled the flat with ants or any other insects ever again.


	6. How to: Give Your Detective a Crisis

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Give Your Detective an Existential Crisis**

"Oh, look!" John exclaimed. "Frankenstein is playing downtown!"

"The movie or the play?" Sherlock frowned.

"The play, obviously. And look, two great actors! Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller, the bloke playing Sherlock Holmes in that bloody awful American show 'Elementary' where Watson is a girl."

Sherlock blinked slowly. "Benedict... Cumberbatch?"

"Yeah? Are you a fan?"

"And... an American spin-off of... what?"

"Sherlock Holmes? The books from the 1800's?"

"May I, ah, see that newspaper, John?" Sherlock choked.

The doctor passed it over without complaint. Sherlock scanned it quickly, his face becoming more and more scrunched. He whipped out his phone, recently restored to him, and looked up the number of the newspaper, calling it immediately.

"The story about Frankenstein... yes, this morning. Are there... any misprints? No? Thank you..."

He rang off, then stared at his phone. Then he stared at John for a while.

"John," he asked, adding, "John Watson?"

"Yes, Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Does anything seem... off, to you?"

John pondered that for a second. "No, not really. Why?"

Sherlock's frown threatened to consume his face. "I... it's not important. Never mind."

He stood, shivered a little, and fled to his room.


	7. How to: Misuse Your Detective's Talents

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Misuse Your Detective's Talents**

"-and young, but too old for the clothes she's wearing, possibly an off-duty receptionist, more likely a bar tender," Sherlock observed tiredly.

"Stunning and impressive," John praised without missing a beat. They walked for a few more feet before they again passed someone who caught John's notice. "What about him?"

"Formal attire, but he keeps fidgeting with it, clearly not the sign of a gentleman or someone used to being dressed up," Sherlock sighed. "Additionally it's a rental suit, higher-end than he can afford, judging from how carefully he is avoiding puddles. Small bulge in his breast pocket, his hand keeps going to it to check for its presence. He's on his way to propose to a much richer woman who possibly does not know he's from a lower class."

"Marvelous. Amazing as usual, Sherlock. Oh! That woman, over there!"

"Strong hands, but not calloused or dirty, unpainted nails, cut very short, arms toned from constant use but unathletic body, flat shoes as opposed to heels, classical piano player. Honestly, John, I don't know why you're so interested in the personal lives of passersb—"

"Brilliant, absolutely fantastic. What about her?"

"John, I did not invent and master the science of deduction for your amusement."

"One more, just one more!" John begged for the hundredth time.

Sherlock sighed.

"Lithe body, too tall for the shoes she's wearing..."


	8. How to: Make Your Detective Read Signs

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Make Your Detective Use the Right Bathroom**

John took a deep, fortifying breath. He was a soldier. He had run directly into enemy fire: He could do this.

Shaking his head once, hard, he dashed into the women's bathroom, dodging the shrieking females, and grabbed his consulting detective by the scruff of his greatcoat before he could get into a stall. "This is the women's room, Sherlock. Out. Now."

Sherlock looked back at him as best he could. "Is it?"

"Didn't you see the sign?"

"I deleted those a while ago."

John exhaled loudly through his nose. "And the _women _everywhere? Look, we're not having this conversation here. Out." Ignoring the loud and varied protests that Sherlock provided him with, John physically hauled him out of the bathroom, uncaring for any bruising that might occur along the way.

When they were again in non-sex-segregated territory, John rounded on Sherlock. "What were you _thinking_?! You can't delete things like this!"

"What does it _matter_?" Sherlock demanded, fixing his collar and giving John a glare for messing it up. "The toilets are entirely the same!"

John shook his head, too mortified to be angry. "Morally? It probably shouldn't. Even logistically. But, Sherlock, you can't just walk into the ladies' toilets. It's called _functioning in a society_. One of these days, they're going to just haul off and attack you."

"But _why_?"

"See that?" John blatantly pointed at Sherlock's crotch. "That, right there, in your pants? That's why. Women don't want to see that while they're trying to pee. So keep it in the men's room."

Sherlock huffed. "The old cat lady wanted to see it."

John stared at him for a beat, then spun on his heels and did a very accurate impression of Sherlock's best 'stalking away.'

"I can't take you anywhere."


	9. How to: Ask Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Ask Your Detective Personal Questions**

**OR**

**How to: Traumatize Your Landlady**

John was a nosey son of a bitch.

He was aware of it, and it was a facet of his personality he had come to accept long, long ago. Conveniently, Sherlock had few secrets from him, and any he wanted to keep were so far out of John's reach that his nosiness was irrelevant: he'd never find out, anyway. Generally, this was fine. It just added to the air of mystery that made his flatmate so endlessly interesting and captivating.

There was one thing, though, that John Watson simply had to know, _had to_, and he decided he would find out using any means necessary, even if it meant walking right up to Sherlock and asking. He didn't even care what the answer _was_. But he had to know.

That was why he was currently standing in front of the world's only consulting detective, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mouth open and ready to form words any minute now.

He finally forced out, "Sherlock, do you ever, you know..."

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper he was scanning for potential cases, quirking an elegant eyebrow.

"John?"

"You know..."

"I'm afraid I don't."

John exhaled through his nose and steeled himself. "Sherlock, do you ever masturbate?"

The other eyebrow went up as Sherlock gave him a look of disbelief.

"I can't imagine why you want to know that."

"Me either."

"I should think the answer would be obvious."

"I should think so, too, but I honestly have no idea."

Sherlock tossed the newspaper aside irreverently and stood, forming himself into the anatomical position, hands at his sides, palms towards John, standing upright.

"Observe and deduce."

John stared at him, looking for any sign he could possibly make out either way, but, as it turned out, he _wasn't Sherlock Holmes_ so this demonstration was remarkably unhelpful.

After a few moments, Sherlock nodded, then sat back down, resuming his newspaper.

"Satisfied?"

John sighed. "That didn't help me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The answer is what you think, John."

"Well then, what do I think?" Because he honestly didn't know.

"How can you not know what you think? Is that something that happens to normal people? How dreadful..."

"Sherlock."

"John."

_"Woo-"_

"Sherlock, do you masturbate or not?!" John demanded loudly.

_"-Hoo?"_

John whipped around in time to see Mrs. Hudson's rapidly retreating back.


	10. How to: Wash Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Wash Your Detective**

"Sherlock, you've been lying around for four days."

The detective hummed.

"You haven't moved except to go to the loo."

He hummed again.

"You're wearing the same clothes as when you first plopped down here."

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock drawled.

"Sherlock," John informed him matter-of-factly, "You're stinking up the entire flat. I can smell you from my bedroom."

"It doesn't bother me."

"Believe it or not, you reeking of man stink _does_ bother _me_. Go have a shower."

"No."

John was prepared for that. As such, he did not miss a beat in saying, "Go have a shower, or so help me I will bring a bucket and a sponge and clean you off right here."

Sherlock finally opened his eyes to glare at him. "You wouldn't."

"Want to find out?"

Sherlock studied him for a moment more, then closed his eyes again. "I don't have to because I know you won't do it."

John snorted and marched away, and for a moment Sherlock foolishly believed he had won, and he gloated.

When John returned a moment later with a gently steaming bucket and a flannel he stopped gloating, and when he found fingers on his shirt buttons he was downright shocked. He was too scandalized to resist, though, and he soon found himself shirtless and John's hands going towards his zipper. "John!" he gaped.

"You _are_ getting a wash, even if I have to do it myself. Relax, you can keep your underpants."

And then his pants were gone, and his shoes and socks, and he was staring up at John in disbelief as the doctor dipped a flannel into steaming, soapy water and rung it out.

Some little part of him was still convinced that John would back out at the last minute, but of course John was a trained professional and not at all uncomfortable with the human body in any condition.

In fifteen minutes, Sherlock found himself scrubbed completely clean, his hair significantly less disgusting, the sofa hardly damp, a fresh pair of pajamas on his body, and John and the bucket gone.

To this day, he isn't entirely sure how it happened.


	11. How to: Learn From Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Learn From Your Detective**

Sherlock had made him interview a witness on his own, again, because he was simply too lazy to get up and do it himself, again, because _apparently _two of three people dropping dead in the middle of an underwater threesome was simply not interesting enough to get the world's only consulting detective on his feet. Again.

John didn't actually mind interviewing witnesses. In a lot of ways, he preferred to do it himself, because when _he_ did it there was rarely someone hyperventilating or crying afterwards. He was so good with bad news, in fact, that he had once delivered a diagnosis of cancer to a patient and the patient had _thanked_ him, given him a hug, and asked him out for coffee. So really, it was better that John be in charge of the human interactions.

The only problem was, he always missed something, and he knew it. He was a smart guy— he'd gotten through med school, after all— but this was _Sherlock_ he was supposed to be living up to. There was always something, like a stain on the clothes or a hair or a smudge on a fingernail that John couldn't even see, let alone deduce and report.

So, the part where he had to report to Sherlock was his least favorite, because Sherlock would always ask him questions he couldn't answer and then sigh because to him it would have been obvious. Then John would yell at him about doing his own interviewing and Sherlock would ignore him, and the whole process would start all over again.

"How did the first two meet?" Sherlock asked. "Did he say? It seems like two hours is a bit quick to jump into bed with someone. Or pool, as the case may be."

"They saw each other at the bank. It was love at first sight, apparently."

Sherlock snorted. "Unlikely."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, love at first sight is impossible— in fact, love doesn't exist at all— so they couldn't have."

"No, they both exist, of course," Sherlock said, ignoring the jab. "I just don't believe people as dull as these apparently are could manage love at first sight."

John's world collapsed a little and for a moment he actually had no idea what to do with himself. "You... believe in love at first sight?" he stuttered.

"Perhaps not in the traditional sense," Sherlock continued, and John felt his shoulders relax a little and the galaxy fall back into order a bit. "But for certain people it is definitely possible. Take me, for example."

"_You_?"

"Yes. As you are no doubt painfully aware, I can, at a glance, tell you nearly all there is to know about a person. Often, this includes aspects of their character and personality. If I instantly know a person upon first meeting them, it is not a stretch to say that I could also then fall in love with them."

"So you believe that _you_ could fall in love with someone at first sight."

"The one and only time I have ever been in love, it came about in such a way, so yes."

John's mouth made a small 'o' of surprise. "So you've been in love, then?"

"Yes."

"And at first sight?"

"Yes, John."

"How did you meet, erm..."

"I was... working on something," he looked down, evidently finding the floor fascinating. "When I looked up, I knew enough about the person I saw to... fall in love immediately."

"Wow," John said thoughtfully.

"So it's definitely possible," Sherlock said firmly. "But not for these people." He stood. "Now, despite your lack of interview skills, I have solved the case. Phone Lestrade and tell him to arrest the postman."


	12. How to: Reboot Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Reboot Your Detective**

Sherlock burst through the door in his usual fashion, all wild energy and long limbs and contrasting grace, and swept into the middle of the room, followed calmly, as always, by the thoroughly-beige John, who shut the door behind him.

Two startled people looked up at their hired detective from where they sat on a sofa.

"I have identified your son's killer," Sherlock announced, his voice slipping into the grand, easy eloquence that betrayed his high breeding and education. "The police are moving in as we speak."

They gaped at him from their seats.

"Three days ago, you reported your son missing when his school phoned to tell you he never arrived. He was last seen leaving your house to walk to school. Distracted, he lost his way, and met with a kindly older gentleman by the name of Floyd Mendleton, who thankfully had no unsavory intentions for the boy and led him to his school before going to work. Upon interview, Mr. Mendleton insisted that the boy had been safely deposited at the school's front door. I was inclined to believe him. As such, I could see no choice but to investigate the school building. I infiltrated the building dressed as a member of the janitorial staff, allowing me access to the abandoned construction on the school's orchestra room. Here, your son was found shot through the frontal lobe, three days dead. A cursory examination of his body revealed to me that he had known his attacker and followed her willingly to the site of the murder, which was not the orchestra room. Obviously, the murderer was the choir director."

The room was stone silent for a moment.

"Tommy... is dead?" the woman said faintly.

John grimaced and stepped in, using his best soothing surgeon's voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Pieters, we are very sorry for your loss. I'm a doctor, and I saw the body— I can assure you that he didn't suffer at all. He wasn't even frightened before he passed away."

"Tommy is dead?" the husband echoed. "But he was just _missing_..."

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, "you've just been told twice, now, as well as receiving a very thorough explanation from me. And you should know that it was a completely preventable death, as well, had you _observed._"

"Sherlock," John said sharply.

"Your son was distracted that morning, did you not notice? His jacket was fastened up, off by one. Tommy was normally meticulous, odd for someone his age but not unheard of, and he never would have abided such a lapse had he _not_ been distracted."

_"Sherlock!"_

The woman's face crumpled, "We—"

"He had bruises on his body, but they were older, not made during the event of his death. He was being bullied, did you know? He was more distracted than usual, that morning, because of a particularly potent threat he had received from Michael Arbor."

The husband stared at him, agape, tears streaming down his face, unable to even form the words to express his disbelief.

John frowned, looking at Sherlock. The detective's face was twisting up in discomfort a little, probably only obvious to John. What did _that _mean? "Had Tommy not been distracted, he would not have gotten lost that morning. He would not have been tardy to school and the choir director would not have had the opportunity to murder him. If you had been more observant from the beginning, _John please stop me, _you could have avoided this whole situation before it started and—"

Taking the cue, John said much more firmly than he had before, "_Sherlock_," and put a hand firmly on his shoulder.

Sherlock sucked in his breath and froze, closing his eyes for a quick moment. When he opened them again, they were much clearer, calmer, and John's shoulders relaxed because he knew it was over.

"What I just said," Sherlock amended, focusing his eyes on the horrified parents. "That was wrong. There is nothing you could have done. The choir director was obsessed with him, and would have found an opportunity at another time. You couldn't have known."

It was a weak retraction, but it seemed to have been enough, and Sherlock allowed John to all but drag him out of the poor couple's flat.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Sherlock stopped short, lamely snatching at John's sleeve, not catching it but still getting the other man's attention.

John turned back to look at him, but didn't say anything.

"Thanks for that," Sherlock murmured. "Even I realized I was being... unnecessarily cruel."

John shrugged, but he couldn't deny feeling a little bit pleased. "There's a reason Anderson calls me your handler, you know."

"Yes, that's what I mean," Sherlock insisted, nodding rapidly and looking intently at John. "For that."

"You enjoy having a handler, then?" John teased.

Sherlock gave him a look. "John, really. For being my... my reboot button." His voice dropped. "As I'm sure you know, I require that, at times."

"It's... fine."

They stared at each other.

"Right." John finally broke the silence. "So, let's go question the choir director."


	13. How to: Advise Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Advise Your Detective**

John rarely, if ever, had success predicting Sherlock, but there were still times when, as used to this as he was, the depths to which his surprise ran caught him off-guard.

This was one of those times.

John would later describe this emotion as 'stunned disbelief,' but right now he wasn't in a state to be labeling his emotions.

Because Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock Holmes had just asked him...

"John?"

Oh, the doctor had been gaping open-mouthed for too long and had worried his flatmate.

"I realize this might be an uncomfortable question," Sherlock lied.

"No! No, Sherlock, it's... fine! Not awkward, just surprising. So, um... what do you need to know?"

"Relationship advice," he repeated promptly.

"Can you be more specific?"

"How to save one."

John frowned and leaned forward. "Sherlock... are you in a difficult relationship?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Are you close to losing this relationship?"

"Yes. And that mustn't happen."

"So it's important to you."

"Unequivocally."

John wondered why, then, the detective had absolutely never brought this man or woman up, but he knew better than to dig for those details right this moment.

"Okay. So, first, whose fault is this? Or is it a general parting of ways?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers and thought about this for a moment. "I suppose it is mine," he said at last. "I have been... distracted. Other things and people, experiments, have demanded my attention."

"You are easily distracted," John pointed out. "One would think your... significant other... would understand this. You shouldn't have to go against your nature for a relationship."

"But John," Sherlock said desperately, "I don't know what I would _do_ if..."

John frowned. Sherlock sounded so worried. It really must matter to him. Why had he never heard about this person before? "Try rekindling the romance, then," he suggested. "Do something new together. Take a holiday. Bring flowers or whatever present would be well-received."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "I'm not sure how that would work."

John nodded sagely. Must be really bad. "Well, Sherlock," he said gently, "I don't know what to tell you, then. You might need to let this one go. Especially if..." he took a shot in the dark, "she doesn't understand that sometimes you get busy."

"She?"

"Or he," John added hastily.

Sherlock frowned. "John, we _are _talking about my marriage to my work, correct?"

...

Right, well that made significantly more sense. John's world corrected itself on its axis. "So we're not talking about a person then," he said, slightly relieved that life as he knew it had returned to normal.

"No, obviously. Who would I be dating?" He made a face. "Anderson?"

"Oh please anyone but Anderson."

"Precisely." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and stood. "Well. This _has_ been fascinating. I am going to text Lestrade and beg for a case."

"Right. Sounds good," John agreed enthusiastically.

Sherlock gave him a long, searching look before shaking his head condescendingly and walking away.


	14. How to: Make Your Detective Eat His Veg

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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**How to: Make Your Detective Eat His Vegetables**

"Sherlock," John said, face the perfect 'disapproving frown,' "why are you so determined to believe that carrots are part of an elaborate government plot to... well, why are you so determined to believe that carrots are part of an elaborate government plot to do _anything_?"

"Because," Sherlock replied as if John were being deliberately difficult specifically to annoy him, "Mycroft loves them."

"So?"

"And I hate them."

"_So_?"

"So, John, when I was a child, Mycroft was always telling me to eat my vegetables. Now he is the British Government. You can't tell me that's a coincidence."

"Sherlock," John said gently, heart softening, "All little kids are told to eat their vegetables."

The detective smirked and leaned back in his chair.

"Precisely."


	15. How to: Inform Your Detective About Sex

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

**How to: Inform Your Detective About Safe Sex**

There was a corpse sprawled out on the floor of the crime scene naked, according to Lestrade's text, except for a condom.

Sherlock frowned at his mobile. "No picture, no description, no name, age, sex, race, height, weight... what am I supposed to do with this text? Waste of time..."

He began to type rapidly back, berating Lestrade for wasting time with uninformative texts, when John said, half-jovially, half-cringing at the idea of another person murdered, "Well we know it was a man."

Sherlock paused in the motion of his thumbs, sparing a moment to peer at his flatmate. "How do we know it was a man?"

"Because of the condom?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Oh. Yes. Of course." Awkwardly, he went back to his phone.

Something about the detective's face put up little red flags in John's mind, and while he didn't want to ask this question, he _needed_ to know the answer or the doctor in him would never let him sleep that night.

"Sherlock," he said calmly, "You know what condoms are, right?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock snapped, evidently getting another text from Lestrade that was slightly more satisfactory but not much.

"And you know how they work?"

Sherlock's peeved response was just a fraction of a second too slow. "Yes."

"But you didn't realize that a person wearing a condom had to be a man," he pointed out, still calmly.

The detective sighed through his nose. "Shut up, I'm focusing."

"No you're not. I can tell by your face that Lestrade is purposely sending you annoyingly sparse texts as revenge for last Thursday."

Sherlock couldn't think of a comeback for that. "Stop it," he said instead. "My work is going to leave me for you."

John was certain, now. Sherlock knew what condoms were, but he had no idea how they were used. "Alright, mate, I'm going to make this quick because neither of us is going to enjoy this discussion but it's important so you need to know." He raised his eyebrows pointedly when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, cutting him off and using his best doctor's voice. "Condoms are little... well, hoods, usually made of latex and coated with lubricant, which go on a man's penis during vaginal or anal sex to prevent pregnancy and sexually transmitted illnesses. A condom should always be worn when someone is making contact with someone else's genitals except in cases of long-term, exclusive relationships when both parties are tested and proven to be free of illness." He stopped and took a deep breath. "Alright?"

Sherlock nodded a bit more jerkily than usual, and John suspected that had he been anyone else his face would have been red.

"Alright," he said, finality in his voice.

Several moments of silence passed between them, broken only by the crinkle of John's newspaper as he turned a page and Sherlock's increasingly frustrated typing.

Now that it was over, John relaxed into his seat and then grinned, wide and amused. "Sherlock Holmes deleted condoms."

Sherlock shot him a positively filthy look, then ordered him to grab his coat and follow him to began the case that John would later refer to as "The Condom Killer.


	16. How to: Understand Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

**How to: Understand Your Detective**

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, and his eyes were glazed over in a way John was all too familiar with. It meant Sherlock was past the point of shooting walls and doing crazy things and was, instead, a zombie for the foreseeable future.

If John were being honest with himself, he preferred Sherlock shooting the walls.

His heart ached for his friend when he got like this. John had long ago come to realize that what he called 'boredom' and what boredom was like for Sherlock were entirely different experiences. He couldn't understand it any better than that, really, but he did know that when Sherlock got to this state it was almost impossible to rouse him. The look of misery on his face was upsetting.

"Sherlock?" he tried.

Nothing.

"Sherlock!"

No response.

He added a hint of panic to his voice, "_Sherlock_! Help!"

John strongly suspected that someone could come in and start murdering him and Sherlock wouldn't notice. It was slightly discomforting.

He wanted to remove the glassy, hopeless expression from Sherlock's eyes so he padded over to him, leaned down, and slapped him very hard across the face. Sherlock's eyes snapped into focus and he sat up suddenly, clunking heads with John which made John yelp and made Sherlock merely blink and rub his slapped cheek.

"John?" he asked.

Even though his head now hurt, John smiled at hearing Sherlock's voice again. It had been a full twenty-four hours. "Sherlock," he said, relief evident in his tone. "I was getting worried."

"Rightfully so," Sherlock sighed, reclining again. "I am mind-numbingly bored."

"What's it like?" John asked. "In your head, when it gets like that?"

Sherlock frowned in thought. "No one's ever asked me that."

John waited patiently.

"Well I suppose," the detective said, "It's like a sensory deprivation tank." He nodded to himself, satisfied with his analogy. "When I was much younger, before I developed anything resembling control over this," he tapped a finger against his temple, "my parents put me in one upon my brother's recommendation. The theory was that if I was overwhelmed by sensory input, then putting me somewhere where there is no sound, sight, or much scent could help. It had helped him at a similar stage."

"And did it help you?"

"No," Sherlock said with feeling. "It did not. It just made me like _this_," he gestured at where he was laying, "for as long as I was in there, and then overwhelmed again when I got out." With a heave, Sherlock rolled over onto his side to see John better. "That's what getting a puzzle is like," he added.

"Like coming out of a sensory deprivation tank?"

Sherlock nodded. "Suddenly finding a case or an interesting experiment or whatever is like someone threw open the doors while I was in there and not expecting it. Light and noise flood in and everything becomes hyperrealistic and sharp and clear and immeasurably lovely."

"Lovely?" It was an odd thing to hear from Sherlock Holmes.

"Well it would be, wouldn't it," Sherlock pointed out tentatively, "compared to how everything feels in a sensory deprivation tank."

"I... yes. Imagine it would."

They sat there in silence for a while until Sherlock mumbled to himself, "Maybe that fungus experiment..."

In a rare instance of perfect timing, John got a text. He looked up at Sherlock and grinned. "Lestrade."

Sherlock's eyes lit up.


	17. How to: Reassure Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

**How to: Reassure Your Detective**

"John, my work and I are getting a divorce."

"What?" John asked, startled. "I thought you said it was going better! Rekindling the romance and all."

"Yes, well, I'm not sure why I came to you for relationship advice. I've been married for fifteen years and you can't keep a girl for a month."

John frowned but he couldn't argue with the truth. "But what happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not the same, anymore. My work used to be the only thing I cared about. Everything else was _for_ it. Now, there are... other things to consider."

Sherlock looked down.

Now, John was far from an oblivious man, and he knew that Sherlock wasn't great with emotions. John was, though, and he knew what someone saying something like that and then awkwardly looking away meant.

And Sherlock hadn't really turned him down in the beginning, after all. He had just said he was married to his work. But now, if Sherlock and his work were breaking up...

"So... are you saying... there's someone else?"

"You could say that."

John shifted, nodding once. "Right. So, who is it?"

"You are familiar with... 'them.'"

"Tell me it's not Anderson," John groaned, remembering their previous discussion.

"Absolutely not!"

"Okay then."

"You see 'them' every day."

The only people John saw literally every day were himself in a mirror and Sherlock. John made a mental note not to rule out Sherlock falling in love with himself.

"Oh?" he said politely.

"Yes. And... oh I'll just tell you. You'll never guess."

"No, Sherlock," John said firmly. "I know where this is going. I want you to know it's fine. Thank you for telling me."

Sherlock visibly relaxed. "Really? Thank you. I was concerned you would find it unacceptable."

"Not at all."

The detective sprang to his feet. "This is fantastic. I must share the news."

"Not on your blog, I hope..."

"Write about a new relationship on my blog about my work? Honestly, John. Tacky."

"Wait, new relationship?" John asked hurriedly. "Sherlock, I'm not gay."

Sherlock gave him a look that suggested he was mad. "I'm aware of that," the detective said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Although I hardly see how your heterosexuality is relevant to this conversation."

"You just said we were in a relationship!"

"No." It was the same tone. John wanted to punch him in the face. "I said I am in a new relationship."

"With whom!"

"Chemistry. Didn't you say you'd figured it out?"

John went quiet for a long moment. "Sherlock," he said pleasantly after a while, "You remember that conversation we had about condoms, before?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock sighed.

"I'd like to review it with you. Just quickly." He hesitated again. "So, what exactly do you plan to _do_ with Chemistry?"


	18. How to: Protect Your Detective From Puns

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**A/N: Happy new year!**

* * *

**How to: Keep Your Detective From Killing Himself Over Puns**

"Are you sure?"

"No, John, I'm Sher_lock_. ...Oh God, John, _God_, give me your gun."

"Sherlock..."

"I need to blow my head off."

"Sherlock!"

"I made a pun! Give me the gun! Oh now I'm _rhyming_, John, it has to stop!"

"Sherlock, you're overreacting."

"I know where you keep it."

Fueled by his uncertainty that Sherlock was truly joking, John threw himself to the hiding spot of the gun before the detective could get there. With a practiced flick, he unloaded it and put the cartridge in his pocket.

"Sherlock. You're not killing yourself over this."

"John, give me the gun."

"No."

"Give me the gun or I'll go garrote myself." His jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. "Alliteration!"

"Sherlock!"

It wasn't the best method for handling the suicidal, but Sherlock was rather a special case and John would never be able to outthink him. Accordingly, he launched himself at Sherlock, catching him in a hold he'd been taught in the military, one that even Sherlock Holmes would be unable to break.

"Listen to me," John commanded in his best Captain Voice.

Sherlock tried to nod but his head was pinned too thoroughly. John felt the attempted motion, though, and accepted it as an answer.

"You are going to calm down," he ordered, "and you are _not_ going to shoot yourself."

"But-"

He tightened his arms and Sherlock choked.

"_And_," John continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "you will let go of your hatred of wordplay."

Sherlock scowled, but slowly realized he couldn't breathe properly. While he doubted that John would actually kill him, one never knew when it came to a Watson.

"Fine," he forced out.

John released him. "Good." He gave Sherlock one last glare to prove he was serious, made sure he still had the ammo (Sherlock was a skilled pickpocket) and marched out of the room.


	19. How to: Groom Your Detective

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

**How to: Groom Your Detective**

In a horrible twist of fate that would make John very unhappy for several months, Sherlock broke both of his arms.

The only upside was that he'd been injured by a car. Crossing the street. Without looking. Even through the pain, Sherlock had managed to give him a very-impressive glare that told John that yes, he'd told him so and yes, Sherlock would march over there and kick him if he said a word about it.

He hadn't said 'I told you so,' but that didn't meant he hadn't thought about it.

_After_ the initial moment of breathless, mind-shattering terror that the cab had killed him, of course.

Since then, things had royally sucked. John had had to do everything for the other man, from dressing him to feeding him to, on one memorable occasion before Sherlock had applied his genius to developing a method to ensure it never happened again, wiping his arse, which had been uncomfortable for everyone concerned and probably for Mycroft who was no doubt watching with his cameras.

One positive, however, was that John got an answer to one of the great mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: how did the man always look so dang amazing? The answer turned out to be time and expensive skin and hair products.

Also hair curlers.

In his first days back home, Sherlock had looked awful, and John had started to worry that one of his deeper scrapes had gotten infected or he was otherwise not recovering as he should. He'd confronted Sherlock about it who, after some cajoling (read: threatening to take away his arse-wiping device), had confessed that it was mostly due to the lack of his ordinary routine that he looked half-dead.

Somehow this had led to John agreeing to do it for him every morning.

It was definitely because he was such a good doctor and friend, and definitely not because Sherlock turned his threat back around on him and suggested he'd just stop using the arse-wiper.

It was interesting, in a way, to not only brush Sherlock's teeth, but now to apply approximately six million different lotions to his skin, shave his face, and, yes, put curlers in his hair before he went to bed.

They were pink, those hair curlers.

John didn't think he was going to get over it in the near future, and he certainly wasn't going to let Sherlock forget it either.


End file.
